


The Frog Prince's Tunnel of Love

by pyrrhic_victoly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Babies, Banter, Bedtime Stories, FACE Family, Fairy Tale Parody, M/M, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victoly/pseuds/pyrrhic_victoly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairytale in which a Frenchman falls for an Englishman and then their stunningly good lovemaking creates modern architectural wonders, AKA "Why Papa Francis Sucks at Telling Bedtime Stories".</p><p>
  <s>Oh yeah, we're making that Chunnel.  We're making it all night long.</s>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Time

Listen closely, mes petits enfants. This is the story of how your papa met your father. It's quite romantic, if I do say so myself.

...Are you ready? Très bien. Allons-y!

Once upon a time in a kingdom far away, because that is how all fairy tales begin, there lived a gorgeous prince. He was magnificently handsome and suave; all the lords and ladies swooned over his perfect visage, sexual prowess, rapier wit, and fully stocked wine cellar containing some very nice vintage Bordeaux. He was, in short, Adonis and Eros and Hermes and Dionysus all rolled into one, except he wasn't Greek. He was French, which was even better.

Prince Francis charmed his way throughout the court without a care for the broken hearts he left behind. That was his folly. For all his outward perfection, he was, to put it bluntly, a no-good Don Juan. (Except a Frenchman, not a Spaniard, oui?)

One day, he toyed with the wrong young lady. She grew vengeful once he had moved on, and so she hired the services of a mysterious wizard from an isle across the sea. She had the wizard craft a potion for her which would cause whoever drank it to make a fool of himself.

"I want him to lose all of his charm," she told the wizard. "I want him to self-destruct! I want him to see what it is like to be cast aside by everyone he has ever scorned!"

The spiteful woman had planned to slip this into the prince's wine at the next party. Indeed, she sidled up to him at that grand event with just that in mind.

They were in the ballroom, where there was laughter and revelry all around. It was a spectacular party being held in honor of the king's latest wife, the fifth such lady to hold the position of queen. Officially, it was for her birthday. Unofficially, it was being held in the hopes that she would stay married to the king longer than the other displaced former queens, for the king was as much a player as the prince. He was worse, actually, for Prince Francis had declared that he would never marry at all if he could not find The One, whereas the king married every lady who caught his eye and had dalliances with men on the side.

...It ran in the family.

But although everyone knew the secret behind the celebration, they all ignored it in favor of having a good time. Music filled the air; in the center of the room, dancers twirled every which way. The prince excused himself from his current belle and headed toward the refreshments for a flute of champagne.

At that moment, the woman tapped him on the shoulder. Francis turned around to converse with her, not noticing as she slid her hands down along his arm to flick the contents of a small vial into his drink. When she pulled away, Francis graced her with a stunning smile. He raised his glass to her - drank to love and luck, ironically - and then the poison was sliding down his throat, just as she'd planned.

The woman slipped away into the crowd, and was gone by the time the prince noticed anything was wrong. (In truth, he had laughed and joked with so many ladies that night that he had no idea who among them wished him harm.) It started as a tingling in his throat. He found himself feeling an odd scratchiness that wouldn't go away no matter how many times he cleared it. Francis considered leaving the party for a while, perhaps to check the medicine cabinet for a lozenge, but it was at this moment that his father called for him.

"Come, come!" the king said. "You have a magnificent way with words, my son. How about leading the toast?"

Francis bowed to his father and made his way to the raised platform at the front of the ballroom where the guest of honor was waiting. After all, he couldn't very well refuse a chance at being the center of attention... Francis merely raised his glass again, and all eyes were on him.

"Welcome, everyone! Tonight we are gathered here to celebrate a most gracious woman..." He paused to kiss the queen's hand. "And-"

The words caught in his throat. Francis tried surreptitiously coughing off to the side, but the itching kept growing stronger. He swallowed, and hoped for the best. "And this woman, this..." His voice cracking, Francis turned toward the queen and gave her a blindingly bright smile. "This charming, beautifuuULLLAAAAAARGH!"

_Splat! Splat! Splat!_

A slimy green torrent of amphibians exploded out of the prince's mouth and hit her right in the face!

"Yeeeeek~!" Her screams were followed by the horrified shouts and exclamations of all the other guests, as well as many of the frogs in her face diving within the valley of her cleavage and down into her dress.

"Oh, no! No, this cannot beeEEWAAAAARGH!"

Frogs shot out of Francis' mouth whenever he opened it. At first they dripped from his every vowel, splattered and squished on the floor, piled and hopped over the tables and on the dance floor, but then he couldn't even speak. He coughed, and frogs came out. He held his breath, but it made him feel like choking, so he coughed, and more frogs came out!

There were frogs in the hors d'oeuvres and frogs in the punch. Frogs climbing curtains and frogs climbing bouffants. Croaking frogs, singing frogs, drunk frogs floating dazedly in the wine. Frogs, frogs, _frogs!_ Of every size and color imaginable, the little creatures completely swarmed the ballroom and poured out to the rest of the castle.

"Francis!" the king shouted, his face quickly growing red with rage. He stomped over, kicking aside hordes of poor frogs, smashing them and slipping on their entrails, and grabbed Francis by the collar. "You have _ruined_ my wife's party!"

Francis opened his mouth to try to defend himself, but all that came out was a froggy croak like before, and then another frog squirmed its way out of his mouth by magic. It plopped onto the king's chest and hopped away as Francis held his hands over his mouth in horror.

This further incensed the king, who shook his son and shouted even louder. "You are banished, you hear me? Banished!"

One shake, two shakes, and then-

_Poof!_

On the third shake, the king was left holding a handful of rich cloth with no prince in sight. He was quite bewildered for a second, until a little green form tumbled out of the left leg of the prince's silk trousers.

"Oh! Well... At least I can speak again without frogs coming out of my mouth. That would be most awkward," the frog said. "I'm sorry about this, father. I have no idea why this is happening to me and-"

"Didn't you hear me? I don't care what's happening to you - you're banished!"

"Nononono. This isn't my fault! I'm- Listen to me-" Francis, now a frog, hopped alongside his father as best he could, feeling slightly queasy at seeing the corpses of his fellow froggy brethren strewn all across the floor.

"Ludwig! Take this thing and get rid of it!"

"Father! Father! Nooooo~!" Francis cried. "Nooooooo~!"

He scrabbled and struggled the best he could to get out of the guard's grasp, but Ludwig had been considerably bigger than him even in human form. Now he was a veritable mountain of a man, and Francis' soft frog-fists against his meaty palm were nothing.

Francis was summarily dumped in a box and jostled around. For what felt hours, he rode along in the darkness and cursed his horrid luck. At least Ludwig wasn't going to kill him, right? His father had said "get rid of it", which might have been a backhanded way of saying "Yes, of course you may slaughter my only son." And all because Francis had ruined his father's chances to score tonight? Truly, the king's priorities were off. He was thinking with the wrong head!

An eternity later, the box opened and Ludwig's giant sausage-arm reached in to grab hold of the prince-turned-frog. "Ow, ow, ow! Unhand me, you brute!"

"D-do we really have to do this, Ludwig?"

"King's orders. He'll cut you off, too, if you try to help."

Francis gasped upon hearing the voice of the other man conversing with Ludwig. It was Feliciano! He squirmed to face his cousin.

"Feliciano, please talk some sense into him! You can't turn your back on me, Feli, sweet Feli~! I'm your cousin! We're like brothers, aren't we? You wouldn't do this to your loving big brother Francis, would you?"

But plead as he might, Feliciano could not be swayed. "Ve~ I'm so sorry! I wish I could help, but... Oh, no, I've heard that the food there is terrible! I... I'll bring you pasta~! Waaah!" He wrung his hands and burst into tears as Ludwig manhandled Francis.

To his credit, Ludwig only flinched a tiny bit at Feliciano's wailing. He took in a deep breath and grit his teeth, fully resolved to follow his boss' orders. Without further ado, the brute drop-kicked the frog, punting the poor little amphibian all the way across the sea and onto a backwards island full of barbarians, by which I mean Englishmen. No, wait! I mean barbarians.

By the way, this story is in no way related to that nonsense that your Uncle Feli's stupid boyfriend Ludwig might try to tell you when you get older. I was not arrested for indecent exposure, and I did not meet your father in jail where he had been arrested for drunken disorderly conduct. That is a lie. Just because Ludwig is the sheriff does not mean the potato bastard doesn't have some sort of vendetta against me. He lies.


	2. Wizard Charming and the Frog in Distress

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhh—oof!"

The abrupt landing jarred him, rattled his bones, and churned his stomach. Francis crawled out of the bush on shaky limbs. He was extremely grateful that he hadn't landed in a briar patch and poked his eyes out. No, that was a different fairy tale prince and it was best not to mix them up.

He looked up and down and all around. The scenery was... Well, it was all right, in a way. Francis noted that he was in a forest, albeit a particularly gloomy one. Weak light filtered down from the canopy; moss and lichen grew upon the trees and rocks. As far as the eye could see, it was drab browns, dreary grays and muted greens all around.

"Ah... So I'm alive... I would thank God, but this sort of setting is quite fitting for having an existential crisis. I feel like I should have a smoke and wallow in philosophical ennui." Francis mimed taking an elegant puff from a nonexistent cigarette, but his mood was further dampened at the thought that there was no one around to laugh at his witty remarks. It was decided, then, that he would move on in search of civilization, or at least the closest approximation to civilization that this place had, anyway.

He came upon a clearing in the woods, and within it, a small stone hut with ivy-covered walls. There was a fence around this humble abode, and it appeared to be decorated with various rusted signs, though Francis could not make out what they said no matter how he squinted.

He hopped closer to examine the gate in more detail, only to—

_BOOM!_

—have his eardrums nearly blown off by a fiery explosion coming from the other side of the gate.

When the ringing in his ears had settled down, he heard something else that he was sure was not a trauma-induced hallucination: voices. Francis quickly scrambled under the fence and came upon a quarrel between two men.

"Bugger off, you insufferable git!"

The first thing Francis noticed was that this man had a very nice backside. Toned, firm, delectable... The second thing Francis noticed was that this man was very drunk, and was yelling at the remains of a scarecrow instead of his equally drunk friend. Said scarecrow appeared to have had its head blown off; its lonely neck was still smoking.

The other man hiccuped and let out a strange hissing laugh. "Kesesesese~ Look at you! 'I can handle any Jägerbomb you throw at me,' you said. Kesesesese~" This man then promptly fell on his behind and clutched at his head. The little pet chick on his shoulder peeped at him worriedly.

"Next time I hope you fall on a giant tack and bleed so much out of your arse that you shit your intestines out!"

Ouch. Perhaps it wasn't the best time to be thinking of pretty derrieres. Francis had to admit, though, that the man was quite spirited - just how he liked them.

The other one wasn't bad, either, though something about his facial features reminded Francis of a certain someone whom he would have liked to strangle very much. But then the tiny chick peeped at him and he shakily rose to his feet. "What was that, Gilbird? Oh, sorry to deprive you of my awesomeness, but it's almost Gilbird's bedtime."

The owner of the pretty-derriere-that-Francis-should-not-be-thinking-of was now bent over in the bushes, heaving out the contents of his stomach.

"You...and...bloody bird...go stuff yourselves! Huuuaaaaccckkkkuuuuuggh~"

Even after his friend had staggered off down the road, he continued to punctuate his vomiting with strange invectives involving a turkey baster and baby gravy. Francis found the insults to be very amusing, and the man was quite eloquent for someone who was so obviously inebriated. He was certain to be quite the interesting conversationalist when he was a little less pissy and a lot more sober.

The prince gave a small chuckle. He was about to approach this very interesting man and offer to help - perhaps bring him some water - when he heard a mysterious huffing noise coming from behind. Francis froze as the shadow of a large animal crept over his immediate surroundings.

Then he turned around and saw... a monster.

"Uwaaaah!" Francis dodged, leaping to the side just in time to avoid the giant equine mouth that chomped down on the grass where he had just been sitting. "Mon Dieu, what manner of foul creature is this!"

He had barely gotten those words out when the white beast lowered its horn and charged. Once again, Francis was on the run, and the threat was an evil unicorn! That sharp horn! Those frog-chomping teeth! Frog-stomping hooves! And, oh lord, the stinky horse-breath!

"I thought unicorns were vegetarians!" Francis exclaimed. He dove to the left.

"I know I'm hard to resist, but overly persistent suitors are unattractive!" He dove to the right.

"Get thee back, cheval des diables!" He picked up a tiny frog-sized stick and poked the unicorn in the eye.

The beast roared; it reared back in pain, glaring at Francis with ghastly red eyes that seemed to glow as if they were coals from the deepest pits of hell.

"Hey, what's going on over there? Didn't I tell you to stop eating the gnomes?" The unicorn's master wobbled his way over to them. "I need those gnomes, damn you!"

The unicorn eyed its would-be snack one last time and snorted indignantly. It turned around, lifted its beautiful white tail, and farted a rainbow into Francis' face before promptly trotting off.

"Auuugh, that's disgusting!"

"Well, well, a talking frog," the man said, crouching down so as to peer directly at Francis. "Are you real, or are the fairies playing tricks on me again?"

Francis hopped into the man's cupped palms, and the first thing he noticed with this new view was that this man had very nice eyes. They were as green as Francis' skin was at the moment, or, more romantically speaking, as green as leaves in spring, a green unmatched by any other hue in nature... About a second after this revelation, he also noticed that the man's eyebrows were abhorrently large.

Well, no matter. No one could be perfect, after all.

"Excuse me for my appearance at the moment. I haven't always been a talking frog, you see. Ah, how rude of me not to introduce myself! Francis Bonnefoy, at your service."

The man grunted and gave a terse nod. "Arthur Kirkland."

Not to be deterred by his surly behavior - surely it was the liquor-induced headache settling in and not his normal temperament - Francis continued on cheerfully. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Arthur." He planted a kiss onto his savior's hand. "You have thoroughly charmed me."

"...Right." Arthur dropped his hands to his sides - and along with them, the frog. He rubbed at his temples, muttering to himself, "Stupid fairies again..."

"Wait! Wait up, please!" Francis rushed to catch up. He hopped alongside Arthur as he made his way into the house.

"Stop following me, hallucination!"

"I can assure you that I'm very real, and currently suffering from a very real curse."

Arthur paused. "...Curse?"

"Yes, a curse. You see, I was a man until earlier this evening, when I suddenly became like - like this! I must be under a curse, and if you would be so kind as to point me to a spellbreaker, or at least let me stay here until someone can take me into town..."

"Hmm... A curse?" Arthur turned around and picked Francis back up. He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he examined the frog as if it were a lab creature. "Yes, you're right. It must be a curse..."

"Oh, thank you! I knew I could count on a chivalrous gentleman such as yourself."

This flattery did not reach Arthur's ears at all, for he had shifted gears into what, unbeknownst to Francis, was his "wizard mode". He walked, still somewhat unsteadily, into a room with bookshelves lined on every wall, and dusty tomes littered here and there and everywhere. Francis was set down on the coffee table while Arthur bustled about collecting books.

Having found what he was looking for, Arthur proceeded to pace as he read through it. "Traditionally, curses like this are broken by fair maidens, princesses and the like. I'm sure you've heard of all that drivel about 'true love's kiss'. There's some truth to that, actually. And the second way would be to kill the spellcaster, though sometimes this makes the curse permanent instead. True love is... Hah! I've no idea how you'll go about finding that! And you don't even know who cursed you, so the second option won't work..." He snapped the book shut and looked right at Francis. "The last and hardest way is to find another wizard - one who might be able to study the spell and unravel it."

"You wouldn't happen to know of any wizards, would you?"

Arthur quirked up one disbelieving eyebrow. A very large, very fuzzy disbelieving eyebrow. "You're a daft one, aren't you?"

"..." Francis blinked once. Then twice.

"What? Why did you think I had a unicorn in my yard?"

"...Because you are a virgin? If I were in my regular body, I would be glad to help you... correct that deficiency."

The fuzzy eyebrows lowered into an angry glare. "Because. I. Am. A. Wizard. And frankly, you repulse me. You'd have to kill me before you could get your froggy hands in my trousers, and if you're even going to _think_ about engaging in necrophilic acts, then I will have you know that my ghost shall haunt you forever and make your bollocks shrivel up whenever you're about to have sex."

And this was how Arthur, the surly wizard, came to Prince Francis' rescue.


	3. Toil and Trouble

It was a bright and beautiful morning. Francis awoke to birdsong and warm scents wafting from the kitchen. The night before, the little frog had been laid to rest in a bedside drawer, on a tiny satin pillow miniaturized for his use by Arthur's magic. And now he was to be served breakfast as well, how wonderful! For Francis so esteemed a gracious host, he set all the Englishman's faults aside and swore to begin anew.

Arthur was, Francis imagined, a lovely fellow. So what if he was a horrid drunk? Now that he was sober, he would bustle in with apologies, pert bottom sashaying and green eyes glinting with mirth. That clever mouth most foul would turn coquettish, and they would flirt over tea and crumpets.

It was then that Arthur entered, and Francis turned to greet his host with glorious "Good~ Mor—"

"—tar! Have you seen my mortar? No? Never mind." Arthur rummaged through the closets for all of five seconds before seeming to come to an epiphany, whereupon he scurried away again.

Meanwhile, the warm scent that had been upon the air turned sour, then fetid. Francis' curiosity - his very morbid curiosity - got the best of him, and he hopped out into the living room. The scent was emanating from somewhere across the room and through another doorway, as were clinking and clanging sounds presumably caused by Arthur's search for a mortar.

Francis had not known Arthur for long. As such, he really had no idea what he was jumping into as he poked his little green head into what was decidedly not a kitchen. Oh, no, it was not a kitchen at all! It was a mad laboratory. A cauldron bubbled merrily in the center, potions hissed and spurted, and eyeballs floated in jars on the shelves lining the walls.

Said eyeballs turned their disembodied gaze to Francis just as Arthur did.

"Oh, good. You're here."

"Good morning, Arthur," Francis said. He was secretly proud that the waver in his voice was barely noticeable.

"Yes, yes, good morning. Now dip your legs into this vial."

"It's... Arthur, that slime looks like it has a face."

"It doesn't."

"No, no, that is clearly a mouth," Francis insisted. He warily eyed the tube that Arthur was holding, and confirmed once more that the oozy creature within was either trying to speak to him or was overly eager to dine on frog legs.

If Francis could have one dying wish (and if the oozy creature had good taste), he would like to be lightly sauteed with garlic butter and herbs. Cuisses de grenouille aux fines herbes. Mmm... A wonderful dish that, having experienced life as a frog, Francis would never be able to eat again. He could, however, become it.

"Come on, we don't have all day." Arthur impatiently motioned toward the bubbling death-trap.

"And you're sure this won't kill me?"

"You'll be fine, now get in!" Having grown tired of Francis' dawdling, Arthur took it upon himself to dunk the frog into the vile substance.

"Hey! Ouch! Be gentle on me during my first time, would you?" Francis would have screamed, but it felt... surprisingly nice. Tingly.

He was also enjoying the annoyed look on Arthur's face at his choice of words. That look was even better when he started pretending to moan.

-oOo-

Many days passed in this manner.

"Are we there yet?"

"Shut up."

"Now are we there yet?"

"Look, these rituals take weeks to prepare, all right?"

"All right, all right..." Francis lifted his webbed hands in defeat.

Weeks. Weeks trapped in this rotting house with Bushy-Brows. Would he make it out alive? Would Arthur's eyebrows meet the same cauldron-fate as that poor newt? Why was a sacrificial newt even a necessary ingredient to turn a frog back into a man? Newts were cousins to frogs. Francis had grown attached to that newt and was sad to see it go. They'd breakfasted together, and the newt, whom Francis had taken to calling Newton, had even shared his fizzing potion-bath.

Alas, Newton had left this world. How cold and callous Arthur was! The wizard hadn't even spared poor Newton a look before tossing the little creature into his latest brew...

Living with Arthur wasn't bad, per se. It just didn't sit well with Francis to be indebted to someone he barely knew. What would Arthur want, he wondered, when the spell was broken? What would he demand in return for this favor? (He was, also, slightly wary of the types of magical punishments Arthur could mete out if Francis were to annoy him overly much. This, however, was not enough to keep the frog from testing the boundaries.)

Although Francis sometimes liked to pretend to be a flippant and empty-headed, this act had become a shield of sorts. His kingdom was quite peaceful, but no court could ever be entirely free from the scheming of the power-hungry. He'd learned fencing in order to discourage those who tried to kidnap him and hold him for ransom; he'd studied others' reactions in order to manipulate them with his charm before they could do the same to him. This was how he'd been taught a prince should behave.

From a very young age, Francis had learned to watch his back. It was just that sometimes he didn't succeed, like now. He was currently watching Arthur's back, because the man was really very sexy when he bent down to pick more books from the pile littered at his feet.

Ah, yes. The erudite ones were always the hottest.

-oOo-

Many more days passed in this manner, until one day there was a knock at the door.

Francis, sitting in his daily bath of tingly potions, shifted to get a better look. This was a rare occasion, for Arthur was not normally the type to receive guests. The house was out of the way, and it had been twelve days since Francis had seen Arthur interact with anyone besides himself. Prince Francis couldn't fathom a life where no one came to speak with him! A life where his only friends were 1) an egotistical drunkard who was a few clucks short of a cuckoo, and 2) a talking frog. (That is, if Arthur did indeed consider Francis a friend in the way that Francis had come to consider Arthur.) And yet that was the life that Arthur lived.

Arthur opened the door to reveal a comely young woman. She smiled pleasantly and said, "Hello, Arthur. Gilbert has been bothering Roderich again. I'm sure you understand how unpleasant it is when there is a giant albino leech attached to your husband."

"So? What is it you want from me?"

"A leech, please."

Arthur, his lips quirked up in faint amusement, waved his guest inside while he went to fetch the leech. The lovely lady took a seat next to Francis' cauldron, which had been moved to the living room. She primly crossed her legs at the ankles and proceeded to fail at not sneaking glances at the frog-swimming-in-a-cauldron-on-the-coffee-table.

To make things slightly less awkward, Francis struck up a conversation. "Bonjour, fair maiden," he began.

The lady gasped, but recovered admirably, and she introduced herself as Elizaveta. They got to talking, and Elizaveta voiced her concerns when she heard his tale.

"How strange," she said, "that Arthur would try to cure you, for I have heard of this curse, or perhaps a similar one, and it is said that only true love's kiss may break it."

Before she could say more, Arthur returned with her monstrous leech squirming in a glass bowl. The lady Elizaveta smiled sweetly, by which I mean deviously, and curtseyed before she left. Her words, however, simmered within Francis until he could no longer ignore them; could no longer make excuses for Arthur under the guise of friendship.

"Arthur, why have you not told me of true love's kiss?"

"Where did you hear that from?" Arthur sneered at the mention. He had forgotten his previous drunken dismissal of the subject.

"The lovely Elizaveta has told me the cure for my condition is but a simple kiss. Has this any truth?"

"Legends only, I assure you. There's no such thing as— as _true love_. Hmph. What rubbish."

Francis, being a hopeless romantic, was loathe to brush off any sort of love as merely rubbish, and the more contemptuously Arthur waved off the subject, the more adamant the prince grew in his belief that love would conquer all in the end. "Legends, yes," he conceded, "but surely there must be some truth to them!"

"What is true is that certain... kisses... have been documented as the cure for various transformative curses, but they're nothing more than fairy tales. What should I have told you, then? To go out into the wild to seek your fortune? To quest for this supposed true love of yours that mightn't even exist? You've come to me for help," he said, pointing an accusing finger the frog's way, "and I cannot in good conscience send a patient to his demise, especially not in such a weakened state! Or do you think I have no morals at all! Or do you think your slimy froggy self is in any condition to go a-questing! Bollocks! Rubbish! Utter madness! You seek the Lady Death as your mistress, to- Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Arthur, who had begun gesturing wildly in the latter part of his tirade against love, bitterness dripping from his every word, didn't notice that Francis had slipped out of the cauldron until the frog was halfway to the door. Francis, upon hearing Arthur's footsteps coming nearer, bravely raised his tiny fist.

"To find a princess!" he said. "She will kiss me better."

"You're bloody insane! Haven't you've heard a word I've said? It's dangerous out there; what if you get eaten or stomped on or skewered by another unicorn?"

"Mais oui, that is a risk a man must take for love!"

"You— Fro— Francis, come back here! I'll reverse the magic, all right? We're already halfway through; we might as well stick it out to the end."

"The end of what? My life? I'm not you, Arthur. I can't stay locked up here forever."

Francis continued hopping for the still-open door. His goal in sight, the days of endless cauldron-baths behind him, fresh air and adventure, and... a powerful gust of wind shutting the door in his face.

"Oh. What an... unforseen setback. Would you mind opening the door for me, most gracious Sir Kirkland?"

Arthur shot the frog a dirty look. He strode over to the door, but made no move to open it. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and continued sizing up his ungrateful amphibious guest.

"You're a pain," Arthur finally said. He deftly plucked Francis off the ground and plopped him back into the cauldron.

* * *

-[extra]-

"Your guest earlier..."

"Elizaveta? She's Gilbert's ex-girlfriend."

"Really. I thought she implied that this Gilbert had an infatuation with her husband."

"Roderich? He's Gilbert's ex-boyfriend."

"...Both of them?"

Arthur nodded his assent. "Yes, both of them."

And that, children, is why you should be kind to Uncle Gilbert even if he is an egotistical drunkard, for he has been horribly abused in the arena of love and is really just a lonely man deep inside.


	4. Here There Be Dragons

There was another knock on the door the following day. Two days in a row the hermit had company! It must have been a new record.

Arthur, however, did not seem surprised at all. "That must be Gilbert," he said, closing the spellbook he had been poring over. "Well, I'm off to the pub. Watch the house for me, would you?"

"You're leaving me here? Just like that?"

Arthur did not even deign to give Francis a proper response. He grunted in what might have passed for an affirmative if one were some sort of caveman and went to answer the door. Francis, unable to stifle his curiosity, absconded from the potion he had been steeping in and followed him to greet the guest. He launched himself off the coffee table just in time to grab ahold of Arthur's back as he passed, and from there it was but a short climb to the man's shoulder. Arthur, having become increasingly distracted through the day, did not seem to notice.

When the door opened, the white-haired man from the first night, now sober, immediately raised his hand in a casual salute. The chick on his head mirrored the action.

"Yo. Ready to get shit-faced?"

"Ugh. You've no idea how badly I've needed a stiff drink these past few days."

"Yeah, you look like crap. Jeez, Arthur, you should just keep a gallon of rum in your house so you can be an awesome pirate all the time instead of this workaholic nerd that takes over when I'm not here to awesome you up."

" _Don't_ remind me of the pirate thing."

"Speaking of, didn't we agree that you needed a parrot? What's with the frog? Did you get jealous of my Gilbird or something?"

It was then that Arthur noticed his little passenger. "Ah, y-yes. He's my... er, Arth-frog, my pet frog." He shot a look at Francis as if daring him to disagree that he was anything more than an ordinary pet.

Arthur had perhaps wanted to keep things simple. Letting Gilbert in on Francis' situation would result in a long question and answer session that he wasn't up for at the moment, impatient as he was to seek the sweet, blessed release of self-medication via unhealthy dependence on alcohol.

Francis, however, was no one's pet unless it was in the bedroom, so he spoke up. "That's very kinky, Monsieur Kirkland. Do I get a slave collar?"

"I said pet, not sex slave!"

"Hell yeah," Gilbert said. "Little guy's _awesome_!" He then proceeded to offer his hand for a tiny high-five. And that was how Prince Francis first became acquainted with the infamous Gilbert.

The three companions - or four, including Gilbird - went to the pub with the goal of getting two of them embarrassingly smashed. (Gilbird, Gilbert explained, chose to remain sober in order to drive Gilbert home by chirping directions from his high perch. Though Francis enjoyed his fine wines, he figured it would be for the best if he were to do the same for Arthur.)

It was as they were only halfway to that goal that the conversation drifted to topics of great importance, both for politics in the world at large and for Francis personally. It was a throwaway comment that Gilbert made as they spoke of annoying family members that sparked the change in subject matter - "My little brother is such an uptight bastard. If he nags me any more I might just decide not to tell him that the king he's working for is gonna get his head popped. See what that does for his career, heh."

"What king?" Francis asked. "Where? Why? How?" Being a prince and raised on politics as his bread and butter, he was naturally curious about such things. Despite there being many kings in the world, there was also an ominous feeling his gut that had increased the more Gilbert had spoken about his brother.

"Our king," Gilbert said. "Or the one just across the border, really." He shrugged. "Some of my old mercenary buddies were yappin' about it. Some sort of assassination gig or whatever. The prince is missing and they're gonna pop off the old man soon, so there might be a war brewing in the near future."

From that revelation, it didn't take much to pin down that the reason Gilbert had seemed familiar to Francis in an odd way was because, as different as he was from his brother, Gilbert still shared some of Ludwig's facial features. It was, Francis realized, definitely Ludwig that Gilbert had been talking about (for no one else in all the realm could be so stiff as Ludwig), and so it was, Francis admitted with a sinking dread, definitely his own father who was about to be murdered. Conversation between them was subdued after that, though Gilbert filled it up with half a bottle of spirits, and Arthur filled it up by dancing provocatively without his shirt on.

As the night wound down, the pub closed and they slowly made their way back home, parting with Gilbert at the bend in the road. Francis had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole way, preoccupied with his own thoughts. He rode upon Arthur's head, and Arthur, though he cursed when he stumbled, was mostly quiet also.

Francis almost did not notice he was being spoken to when Arthur began to mumble.

"If they're planning what Gilbert says they're planning, then your father is in serious trouble."

Francis was surprised that Arthur had been able to pay attention to Gilbert's whining through his own rum-induced stupor, but quickly retracted the thought. Of course, with Arthur's tolerance, he must have been a very high-functioning alcoholic. But it was still surprising that Arthur, the eternally prickly mage, had bothered to bring up the subject with Francis, almost as if he cared. Francis cleared his throat and tried not to look flustered even though no one was looking. He was supposed to be suave and flirtatious to the end, but he had never really _liked_ anyone the way he liked Arthur. It was starting to ruin his carefully crafted mask, so he tried twice as hard to maintain it.

He responded flippantly, "I never took you for one to state the obvious."

"Oh, piss off. I'm just trying to be a good concerned friend here."

"We're friends now? Really?" Dramatic disbelief colored Francis' voice.

"Yes."

"Really really?"

"No."

"What! You can't just take it away that easily!"

"I just did."

Having successfully steered the conversation back into his comfort zone and wrung a friendship-confession out of Arthur to boot, Francis was in a much better mood as they arrived back at the little cottage he had begun to think of as home. Arthur parted the gate and made his way to the front door without too much trouble. They stumbled inside and shut the door as in the distance, bells began to toll the hours.

The clock rang midnight as the yard blew up.

First there was a curious shaking, and when they glanced back out the window, they heard the boom and clods of dirt rained down from the sky. The force of the explosion shook the house, and there were terrible rumbles and groans emitted by the antique furniture as they threw off their loads. Vials and phials crashed upon the floor and smashed into the walls, lending their sharp cracks to the symphony of destruction. It went on for a full minute before it subsided, the great belching upheaval withering down to tiny splitter-splats as hunks of grass and sod rolled down roof, smaller and smaller pieces until they stopped.

And there was silence.

The two spectators remained rooted to the spot, transfixed with horror.

"So what do we do now?" Francis asked. Arthur merely cussed in reply.

-oOo-

In the morning, Arthur turned his misfortune around spectacularly. While mending the fence, he took the opportunity to re-paint the rusted signs that hung at the gate, and he even added an extra sentence to the end of the larger one. Francis had not been able to read the signs when he arrived, but now they were restored to all their former glory, and for the first time he took in the words. The first was rather simple and straightforward.

BEWARE OF WIZARD.

The second? ...Not so much. Francis found himself cocking his head to the side as he read the sign and was forced to reassess his earlier diagnosis of Arthur's "mild" sociopathic behavior. It said, in no uncertain words:

NO TRESPASSING. ANY DIMWITS ATTEMPTING TO DO SO WILL GO HOME WITH A MISSING KIDNEY AND NO RECOLLECTION OF HOW IT WAS LOST.

Well, Francis thought, it was certainly consistent with Arthur's attitude thus far - that of a miserly hermit who only left his estate once or twice per month to get raging drunk at the local tavern and wreak havoc about the town while swearing like a sailor with a speech impediment.

Perhaps it was the result of Francis' own presence, or at least exacerbated by it, but Arthur had, in hasty, angular brushstrokes, tacked on the new fine print:

I HATE ALL OF YOU.

"Kidneys, Arthur?"

"That ought to teach them to piss off! And I'll feed their own kidneys to them before I make them forget!"

And that night, as they surveyed what remained of the wreckage, at the piles of glass and spilled potions still to be mopped up, Francis asked, "If I never turn back, would you mind if I stayed?"

And though Arthur would later pretend this never happened, his eyes softened and he said, "I would like it if you stayed."


End file.
